


together, at last, at twilight time

by keatons



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Smut, possibly slightly dub-connish?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 18:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7944652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keatons/pseuds/keatons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long day of completing different Force-related tasks of varying intensity for Master Luke, she is more than ready to finally get a good night’s sleep. Settling into her cot—lightyears more comfortable than the hammock in her AT-AT shelter—she sighs softly as she mentally reviews the day. Nothing too out of the ordinary, except—</p><p>She won’t think about that. Won’t think about the other brief, peculiar misfires she has experienced since Starkiller Base. Views of a star system that do not match those above her, a reflection of a long, pale face bisected by an ugly, red scar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	together, at last, at twilight time

Rey sits on a mossy rock formation, gazing out across the serene blue-green ocean that spreads out as far as she can see. Dusk is swiftly approaching, hazy and violet, as the sun seems into sink into the white-capped currents. She lets the peaceful beauty of it wash over her, closing her eyes and sighing happily.

 

Behind her closed eyes, she sees a flash of a broad back, bare and bloodied, hunched over and suddenly, a sharp thrash of pain lances across her own back. She yelps, frantically reaching around to her back to ensure that no rogue bird had clawed her when she was trying to be meditative and Jedi-like. Her hands come away clean and she can feel no fresh lacerations on her back.

 

Rey swallows nervously, wishing Master Luke were with her to explain what the _kriff_ just happened. While he may only be a few tiny islands away, communing with his ghostly masters in the overgrown temple ruins, he is still off island and she is still getting used to navigating the terrain of Ach-To. Its cliff sides, eroded by the currents of both time and ocean, are so profoundly different from the burnt-out husks of Imperial warships that loomed large in the dry, sandy wastelands of Jakku. And as beautiful as the water is, she has little interest in drowning.

 

She allows herself to panic for a moment or two before brushing the incident off as peculiar misfire in the Force.

 

As reluctant as Rey is to leave her little perch, night has finally swept over Ach-To and she makes her way to the little hut; after a long day of completing different Force-related tasks of varying intensity for Master Luke, she is more than ready to finally get a good night’s sleep. Settling into her cot— _lightyears_ more comfortable than the hammock in her AT-AT shelter—she sighs softly as she mentally reviews the day. Nothing too out of the ordinary, except—

 

She won’t think about that. Won’t think about the other brief, peculiar misfires she has experienced since Starkiller Base. Views of a star system that do not match those above her, a reflection of a long, pale face bisected by an ugly, red scar. She shakes her head in bewildered annoyance; in an attempt to distract herself, she focuses on more pleasant things: the quiet crashing of the waves, the warmth of the hut, the softness of her nightgown’s worn linen. Her hand drifts down between her legs, lazily stroking herself but for whatever reason, a very unwanted image pops into her mind: a pair of hands, large and swathed in black leather, sliding hotly down her body.

 

Rey growls in irritation, mentally batting away the image as it dissipates into the fog of her brain. She thinks instead of Finn’s hands touching her, warm and gentle but her mind, her _stupid_ mind, keeps circling back to a very different pair of hands and wonders how the leather would feel against her bare skin, how those long, thick fingers would feel inside---

 

 _No,_ she tells herself, pulling her hand away like she’s been burnt, _no, no._

Rey breathes in, breathes out, hoping with a hilarious twinge of desperation that it will calm and center her and deter her traitorous mind from drifting towards something so _filthy_ , so _wrong_. Getting yourself off, she thinks, should not be nearly so challenging and ultimately, she would really rather _not_ think of the man she left cut open and bleeding in the pure white snow of Starkiller Base.

 

But does she though? She smothers this aching thrum of doubt, breathing in and then out a little too forcefully.

 

So she tries again, her hand snaking back down between her legs as her mind begins to wander.

 

She thinks of Poe Dameron, imagines him pinning her flat against her back on the consoles, setting off flickering cascades of red and blue lights, as he moves down, down, down her body, pushing down her trousers until he is between her legs. She inhales sharply as he slides his hands beneath her underwear and slowly tugs them down her hips, down her legs until they find themselves of the earthy floor of the Resistance base.

 

Poe uses those fine fingers in such a wicked way, feather-light but firm and Rey gasps and shivers, her toes curling.

 

But it’s nothing compared to when his mouth takes the place of his fingers. He is as playful and determined as he seems to be with all things, and she watches his face disappear between her legs, the beautiful, pitch-dark mass of curls on his head bobbing as those wicked fingers, long and thick, brace her hips.

 

Rey honest-to-stars _moans_ , breathy and uncoiling from somewhere deep inside her and distantly, she hears a choked-off gasp, the sound desperate and raw, that is very distinctly not _hers_ reverberate a little too clearly in her head. Her back arches and her hips roll, and she’s teetering on the edge of something, until he slips two of those damned fingers inside her again and crooks them just _so_...

 

In the spun-glass, split-seconds before everything will come crashing down _,_ she imagines running her fingers through that thick, dark hair, pulling on it hard enough to bring his head up to look at her. She expects to see Poe’s handsome face looking up from between her legs but the face that greets her is very much _not_ Poe Dameron.

 

Instead, the pale, narrow face that gazes back at her, eyes pitch-dark and full red mouth wet and shining from her come, is that of Kylo Ren.

 

Rey screams as it happens and happens and _happens_ , fury and desire crashing over her all at once.

 

And across the velvety black expanse of the galaxy, aboard _The Finalizer_ as it cuts gloomily through space, Kylo Ren lays panting in the shadows of his chambers, one hand tracing the twisted scar that bisects his face and the other fisted around his still-hard cock, come spattered across the hard plane of his belly.


End file.
